The Jacket
by Madilayn
Summary: A leather jacket can be so much more than an article of clothing. A Facebook group prompt - "Leather" I have heavily borrowed from Scribbles97 the notion of Lucy being the engineering genius who started Tracy Industries (and sponsored Brains' education)


There was a time when it was new. The leather pristine, unscuffed. The sheepskin lining fresh and a shining creamy white. When the smell was of high quality leather.

The leather on the jacket is worn, its colour faded a little, and the sheepskin lining is still creamy white, but that glow about it is gone. The coloured patches on it are visible, their colour contrasting with the brown of the leather, yet even these are somewhat faded.

It hangs in a wardrobe now. Along with some other items that rarely get worn – a heavy overcoat, scarves, ski clothes. The essence of its owner, however, is still within it, as it is not with other items. As if the jacket has absorbed some part of the man who owned it.

There is a newer version of that jacket in there as well – the leather not as worn, the patches on it somewhat different. It has started to acquire the essence of its owner, but as its not been worn as often as the older version, that essence is lighter.

That old jacket – it has _meaning_. It's not an item that was purchased from a store, although you can buy similar ones.

But not like this. This jacket is real leather. Real sheepskin. This is a jacket that has to be _earned_. Which makes it more impressive that there are two such jackets in the same closet.

There are few of these left – they are that rare. Only three are given out in any one year to the best pilots in the world. Pilots who have shown exceptional flying skill and bravery. Pilots whose names are spoken of with awe by other pilots.

This particular jacket was earned in tandem with another one – earned by two pilots whose actions at the control of a dead in the air USAF transport plane saved the lives of not only the 50 people on board, but the hundreds of lives on the ground had they not managed to keep it flying ("spit and determination" the two pilots always claimed) until they could bring it down in an empty field.

Those who had these called themselves the "Flying Jackets" after the jackets themselves.

This old jacket, however, had more than just flight history.

* * *

She was there when he was awarded it. He and Val – the youngest pilots so far to be award this singular honour. She had almost burst with pride there on that airfield. She crouched down next to the stroller that contained her one year old son and pointed to Jeff. "Look Scotty," she said proudly. "Look at how brave your Daddy is! He's the best and bravest Daddy ever baby boy!"

Scott looked at her with wondering eyes, and when Jeff came back, those blue eyes glowed and he reached up to be picked up. "Dada!"

And for the first time the little boy knew what it was to be snuggled against that leather jacket, discovered the texture of the leather and the visible sheepskin lining on the collar. And he stroked it wonderingly, falling in love with it. It was brand new, it didn't have the smell he associated with his father yet. But it would come.

Lucy slipped her hand into the crook of Jeff's arm and discovered for herself the pleasure of leaning against him when he was wearing that leather jacket. "We're so proud of you, darling," she said softly, her own eyes mirroring the love that her child showed.

Jeff Tracy just grinned and bent down to kiss her. "Are you sure you don't want to come and have a bit of a celebration?" he asked.

Lucy laughed. "Jeff, not with baby in tow! But don't be too late."

This time it was Val Casey who laughed. "We're on duty at 0600 tomorrow morning. Late is the last thing we'll be!" she said as Lucy hugged her and congratulated her.

Two years later, Lucy Tracy was laughing as she took a photograph of Jeff, wearing that jacket, with three year old Scott standing next to him as he sat on the grass cradling one year old John in his lap. "Smile, my three handsome boys" she called as she snapped the photo and then dropped a hand to her swollen belly.

"Shhhhh baby – don't be impatient," she soothed. Then paused as a cramping pain hit her, followed by an unmistakeable sensation. "Jeff," she called, this time with an urgency to her tone that had him looking at her sharply. "It's time."

Four years later, by the time Jeff Tracy was a highly decorated Colonel in the USAF and the GDF, and moved on to be a fully qualified Astronaut with the GDF Space Centre, the jacket had taken on much of his essence. And his wife had known that when she missed him on his absences whilst in space that this jacket could bring him back to her senses.

He had imprinted himself into it and the jacket and its sheepskin lining smelled of jet fuel, his cologne, the cigars he smoked occasionally, and the fine whiskey he had acquired the taste of. It smelled faintly of her favourite perfume and of their three boys.

It smelled of Jeff's life. And when he was far away, it reassured not only Lucy, but Scott, John and Virgil.

In the next six years, Lucy would spend a lot of time in that jacket, and gradually imprinted more of her own essence in it. In that time, another baby boy was born, born whilst his father was making history again – as the first man on Mars. For the first year of his life, small Gordon's only physical experience of his father was that jacket, the rest being scheduled holovid calls (if the technology worked properly) and stories his mother and older brothers told him.

Seven years later, it acquired the smell of loss. The loss of his beautiful Lucy and of the new life, barely formed in her womb, and not yet fully known to exist, when a freak avalanche hit the snowfields in Canada where they were having a holiday. They had unearthed her broken, lifeless body, protectively curled around their three year old son, Alan.

Jeff's tears had stained the leather, and he had taken off the jacket to wrap around his shivering, crying youngest son as he held him close, and at that time, Jeff wondered if his life would ever have meaning again.

The jacket hung in the closet more and more in the next few years as Jeff Tracy wore a suit more often, concentrating on building the Aerospace Technology company his wife had started, and adding to her legacy with his own genius.

Slowly, the jacket came out of the closet as Jeff insisted on testing his own ship designs. As he spent more time at the airfield built by Tracy Industries. As he taught his sons to fly.

He wore it as he formulated his biggest plans, slowly taking shape from his mind to paper. To a computer screen. It was worn when he found the place that he would finally call home, a perfect place for his dream.

And he wore it as he tested the TV-21, trying to build the fastest rocket plane, destined to be the flagship of his dreams.

He wore it as he hugged his oldest son as he left him at the Air Force Academy. He knew that his Scott would probably match him as a pilot – maybe even beat him.

He wore it as John was launched into space. As Virgil became the youngest ever Engineer to graduate from the Denver Institute of Technology. As Gordon won an Olympic Gold Medal. As Alan told him that his dream was to follow his father and second oldest brother into space.

He wore it proudly as he handed a matching jacket to Scott in recognitions of piloting achievements, bravery achievements, that had earned him honours from nations all over the world.

And he wore it when he told his sons of his plans, and asked them if they were willing to take part. More tear stains happened when they all enthusiastically agreed.

* * *

He wasn't wearing it when he had vanished, which is why it's here in the closet. But, the essence of Jeff Tracy remains in it.

And every so often, one of his sons will come in and take it off the hangar and put it on, slump to the ground and hold it around themselves, breathing in that essence.

Determined that when they find their father, he will wear it again.


End file.
